And the Path is Dark
by carrionkat
Summary: The moments gone unseen are what make the Inquisition the force it is. A collection of defining moments for the Inquisition and its people. Eventual CullenxLavellan.
1. Chapter 1- Cullen

Disclaimer: I think it goes without saying that I don't own the Dragon Age-verse. I own only my interpretation of events.

**And the Path is Dark**

**I.**

_**All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,  
>From the lowest slaves<br>To the highest kings.**_

His world has changed.

Four years ago it was simple enough, if still dangerous and flawed. Cullen knew truths: mages were (for the most part) bad, templars were (for the most part) good, and the Maker loved his people. Then the Chantry in Kirkwall was destroyed and Meredith went mad. The world seemed to follow suit, the fragile peace between mages and templars shattering to pieces. After three long years of fighting in the streets and barely keeping the city from falling to bits, Cassandra Pentaghast had shown up demanding the Champion of Kirkwall be given to her.

Cullen had endured interview after interview that the Seeker demanded, answering each and every of her questions as best he could. _Why did you let Hawke go? Where is she now?_ Somehow between the questioning and his attempts to return order to the city he had earned her respect. Before leaving the city she gave him an impossible offer: the position of Commander, not of the templars, but of Divine Justinia's personal holy army. An Inquisition was to be called. He had thought the offer mad, crazed. He clearly remembers laughing directly in Cassandra's face before he realized she was serious, his sides aching with each heaving laugh.

Cassandra hadn't taken that very well.

He remembers refusing, calling the very idea of an Inquisition barmy. But then Sister Nightingale had spoken up from the shadows. She reminded him of Meredith, of the injustices he had seen borne by both mages and templars. She mentioned the fighting, the senseless killing, that the whole world seemed mired in. And if he could make a difference, which he _could_ as part of the Inquisition, then wasn't it his Maker-given duty to do so?

Cullen had doubted himself for a second, blinked, and found himself in control of an imaginary army that grew less imaginary by the day. When the Conclave exploded, when the sky ripped open, those remaining turned to him and gave their swords to his command unquestioningly. Which put him in the uncomfortable position of being a commander fighting a losing war.

A distant shriek echoes off the mountains as the sky shudders around the Breach and the Veil tears even more. Green light spill from the maelstrom of magic as the hole in the world widens. Cullen watches it, the fear it invokes a pale shadow to what had been. In the two days since the Conclave exploded the Breach has widened several times. The first time was nearly as panic-inducing as the initial explosion. Demons rained from the sky, and the panic was soon forgotten in desperate battle. The mages who had been in Haven during the explosion made their first attempt to close the Breach. The second widening was met with despair: would they ever manage to close the tear? More attempts were made to seal the Breach; all failed. The third was met with grim fear. The fourth and onwards met only with a fatalistic acceptance.

The sound of horse hooves clattering across stones interrupts his reverie. "Commander," Cassandra calls to him, her voice echoing through the yard. Her mount trots down the path towards him, something dangerous glinting in her eyes, her face a storm of fury. Anticipation clutches in his gut; Cassandra wouldn't look so murderous if they hadn't found something.

"What is it? Did the scouts find something at the Temple?"

A kind of vicious glee is obvious in her faint smile. "Yes, better than _something_. They found _someone_." She jerks her head back in the direction of Haven before spinning on mount around, pointing it back towards Haven. "Come. You'll want to see them. And we could use your opinion on the prisoner." A thousand questions spring to his tongue_ -who is the prisoner? Where did they come from? What have they said?-_ but Cassandra has already put her heels to the horse and is halfway down the path to Haven before he can begin to voice them. Cullen watches her ride away with a sigh before sending a runner to search for his second in command.

Cassandra meets Cullen in the yard, outside the Chantry two hours later. She's been waiting for him, if her crossed arms and impatiently tapping foot are any indication. She jerks her chin up in acknowledgement and spins on her heel to walk into the Chantry before he's even dismounted. Cullen beats down the irritation as effectively as he can. They have a prisoner; his dislike of Cassandra's rather curt social skills has no place here. For that matter, neither does the rage welling up in him, burning all his rationality from within. Anger is all well and good, but not if it interferes with what must be done. And killing their prisoner when they need information will certainly _not_ accomplish their goals.

Cullen breathes deeply, letting the crisp mountain air cool him, ground him. Josephine and Leliana will have their hands full just trying to contain Cassandra; he can't expect them to have to handle him as well. Almost two decades of templar training come in handy at times like these, giving him the clarity and purpose of mind needed to select negative emotions and shut them away behind locked doors. He'll open those doors later but for now, he is calm.

He allows himself a single bitter thought as he crosses the threshold of the Chantry. _Cassandra should be able to keep herself calm, she's a Maker-blessed Seeker!_ But is seems she abandoned more than her loyalty to the Order when she cut ties.

A Chanter gestures to a door off to the side of the hall as he enters, not once pausing her recitation of the Chant of Light. _Those who oppose thee, Shall know the wrath of heaven._ Cullen scoffs with dark amusement at the appropriateness of the verse. He's never personally been a big fan of the wrathful declarations of the Canticles of Andraste, but they do seem fitting for his current mood. A vague feeling of unease, the sense of something wrong, scampers up and down his spine as he approaches the door. Cullen opens the iron-bound door to the cellars where the town's few holding cells are found.

A _very _loud and _very_ heated argument is happening in the holding cells. The words, and the uneasy feeling, become more distinct as he descends the stone steps. "We should just kill her," Advocation of violence and Nevarran accent. Cassandra. "Perhaps that will close the Breach."

"We have no way of knowing that!" That voice is less familiar to him, but Cullen still recognizes the faint accent and understated firmness of the Solas's voice. The elf approached them a mere two days after the Breach appeared in the sky, offering help. Cullen and Cassandra had been… less than pleased, but Leliana and Josephine were quick to convince them they needed all the help they could get. Even if it came from a shifty elven apostate with impossibly convenient timing. "Her knowledge, her mark, may contain the secrets to closing the Breach! You would just throw that away by _murdering_ her?!"

"It would be justice for what she's done!" Cullen walks around the corner to see Cassandra and the elf, standing toe to toe. A grudging respect for the elf starts to grow. Although Cassandra stands over him by several inches and has likely twice the muscle mass, Solas glares right back at her, lips twisted into a disapproving frown. He maintains an impressive façade of calm, but Cullen notices his fingers twitching as if itching to toss a few spells her way.

Josephine, ever the voice of reason, steps forward. "Calm down, the both of you. Cassandra, we will have no way of knowing what her role in all of this has been until she wakes up."

"_If_ she wakes up," Solas interrupts, shaking his head as he steps away from Cassandra and her gauntleted fists. "I think it quite unlikely that she ever will."

"Explain," Cullen steps from the shadowed steps into the candlelight, making his presence known. Leliana appears at his side. It's downright unnerving, how she seems to disappear and reappear without even a whisper. Though it's not as if he would ever let her know that; she's quietly smug enough already. She would be worse if she knew that the big-bad templar found her… disconcerting.

Leliana cuts off Solas as he begins to speak. "Perhaps Commander Cullen can take a look at our prisoner first. That way his impressions are not colored by ours." Leliana does not wait for a response before leading Cullen over to a cell, a slight figure slumped on the stone barely visible in the flickering candlelight.

"We had her cuffed and hobbled. If she awakes, she shouldn't be able to do any damage," Leliana explains as she unlocks the door. "However, there is something of note on her left hand which could prove to be dangerous. Be cautious."

The strange feeling grows in intensity as he approaches the slumped figure. When his hand makes contact with her shoulder it _screams_ at him so loudly that he trips over himself to get away, falling on his ass as she scrambles backwards. "Maker's breath, what _is_ that thing?!" The prisoner feels like the rifts that have been popping up ever since the Breach opened._ She feels… wrong. Otherworldly. Like… like demons do. No, that's not quite right. Demons feel distinctly malevolent, twisted. This just feels… wild._ Cullen swallows the wariness that is swiftly threatening to turn to fear and reaches out to touch the prisoner again. This time there is no sudden scream from his instincts, only the persistent sense of wrongness.

A slight push is all it takes to roll the prisoner on to her back allowing him to see the face of the accused. There are a number of things that surprise him. The first are the ears, poking out of her tangled mess of dirt-streaked, blond hair. Elven. Odd, considering the Conclave was a meeting between two largely human groups. This first surprise is confounded further by the markings stamped across her forehead, cheeks, even chin. Dalish. The Dalish were certainly _not_ invited to the Conclave.

Cullen quickly scans the rest of her, taking in her torn clothing with little interest. It appears no different than any other clothing. In the name of thoroughness he strains his templar-senses past the thrumming _wrong_ and searches for other traces of magic. Solas is a beacon of spells woven into staff and robes alike. Much to Cullen's surprise and growing dread, there is a similar echo coming from the clothing of the prisoner. _Enchanted_.

He spares half a second for a quick prayer to the Maker that he is mistaken before grabbing the prisoner's right wrist. He brings it into the torchlight, and sure enough, finds burns streaking her fingertips and palm. Cullen has seen their like plenty of times on overeager apprentices practicing past bedtime and on desperate apostates. On those who either had not the will or not the time to reach for their staves before summoning fire directly from their hands. "Mage." Cullen spits the word out with every ounce of venom it deserves. He drops the prisoner's limp wrist as if the magic in the elf could somehow seep into him, corrupt him. _Of course_ she's a mage. Why would she be anything else? The likelihood of her innocence diminishes with each observation he makes. His cautious curiosity begins to turn back to his familiar anger. His self control weakens, the door locking away his rage creaks, threatening to break open.

The sense of wrongness flares a scant moment before a flash of green light erupts from the prisoner's hand and her body convulses, throwing eerie shadows as the warped song of the rifts echoes off the stones of the cellar. It lasts barely a heartbeat before it fades away. Solas runs into the cell and grabs the prisoner's hands, turning them palm-up. On her left palm green glows along the lines of her hand. As he watches it fades, until it is barely noticeable at all. Cullen remains frozen as Solas fusses, muttering unfamiliar incantations to himself. _What in the world was that?! Can she… open a passage to the Fade? If so… this elf definitely opened the Breach!_ A wave of unassailable certainty crashes over him. _This is the monster!_ The door holding his rage crashes open and Cullen scrambles to his feet, fumbling for his sword. His draw is halted by Solas's upraised hand.

"It is as I thought," Solas's tone is not angry, or fearful. Instead it sounds… sorrowful? _Why would the mage be sad about this? _Cullen's suspicions begin to spread, the shadow of his anger at the prisoner coming to fall on Solas as well. "The mark is growing in time with the Breach. She will be consumed by the Fade if this continues much longer."

"Consumed by the Fade?" Cullen barely manages to bite out the words and drop the hilt of his sword. He takes deep breaths, trying to calm his anger, _we need information, we need information_, but there is no cool mountain air to be found in this dank cellar, and it makes him feel stifled instead of free.

"Yes," Solas does not rise from the floor of the cell. He instead arranges her form into a more comfortable position, pushes the prisoner's hair out of her face. _Blood-streaked hair, not just dirt-streaked_, Cullen notices absently. "I believe that when the Breach opened, this woman was somehow drawn into the Fade physically. She then must have managed to find, or open, a rift in order to leave it."

Lines of the Chant dance in his memory. _You have brought Sin to Heaven, __And doom upon all the world. _There aren't words for the kind of dread that floods Cullen now. "Physical. Fade." Fear chokes his words. A couple of deep breaths later he attempts a complete sentence. "Like the magisters. Like the Chant. Impossible."

Leliana's hand on his shoulder draws his attention, pulls him away from the prisoner and out of the cell. "We don't have the luxury of ignoring a possibility just because it's unpleasant." Her voice is tight, strained, and a strange sense of relief washes over him as he realizes he isn't the only one terrified by this prospect. "If anything, the actions of the magisters in the Chant of Light proves that traveling to the Fade _is_ possible, if not without dire consequences. We have to explore the option that the prisoner is somehow able to manipulate the tears in the Veil." She sends a glare Cassandra's way. "Which is why it would be foolish to kill her. She may be able to repair them. Stop the Breach from growing, or even close it entirely. It doesn't matter what she did in the past, if she can repair what is going on now. We cannot afford to lose her." This sounds of an old argument. One that, judging by Cassandra's dismissive scoff and Leliana's responding eyeroll, they are both tired of repeating.

The weight of the situation presses down on Cullen's shoulders and he sinks to the floor, his back against a pillar and his face in his gauntlets. _Breathe._ Anger locked away. _Breathe._ Fear calmed. _Breathe._ Desperation quieted. _Breathe._ Hopelessness traded for purpose. Cullen raises his head, meeting the eyes of each of his companions. "What do we know about the prisoner?"

Josephine looks down at the ever-present writing board in her hands, checking her notes. "Leliana was able to dig up a little about our… guest." Cullen represses a grimace at her choice of words. Josephine always insists on being pleasant; she shuns words such as "prisoner," even if it dilutes the truth of the matter. Then again, she's a politician. Diluted truth is her bread and water. "As you can clearly see, she is a Dalish mage. No one seems to have known her personally. One pilgrim who was in Haven at the time of the explosion claims that there was a Dalish elf among the mercenary band hired to accompany her people to Haven. There were two grand clerics in this party, so they hired on a fairly large number, most of them independent bodyguards. The pilgrim said she wasn't certain where the mercenary came from, just that they picked her up just north of Highever and that the mercenary spoke with something like a Free Marcher accent. She guessed Starkhaven."

_What would a Marcher elf be doing in southern Ferelden? _"Are we certain the pilgrim was speaking of the correct elf?"

Leliana answers for Josephine. "The description she provided of the elven mercenary matched our prisoner perfectly, down to the placement of her tattoos."

Josephine shuffles papers around on her board, searching for a different set of notes. "We also have begun seeking her motive for being here. Dalish elves rarely leave their clans, so we considered the possibility of the elf being on an errand for her Keeper. Of the clans that wander the Free Marches, we've narrowed down her likely clan to one of three. The most likely by far, however, is the Lavellan clan. Their Keeper has attempted to make amiable contact with humans several times. Of all the clans in the area, they are the only ones who show any true interest in humans." Josephine raps her fingers against the board, biting the side of her mouth with uncertainty. "It is… possible that the clan wished to know firsthand what transpired at the Conclave, and thus sent an agent."

_Great. Just great. More intrigue._ Cullen groans internally. "So, it's possible that the prisoner was not independent, but rather working with the Dalish."

Josephine stops tapping on her board long enough to scribble a quick note. "Considering mages amongst the Dalish are almost exclusively either Keepers or Keeper apprentices… It's more than possible. It's likely."

"Then the Dalish could be behind the opening of the Breach." Cullen says the words, but he doesn't believe them, not really. He doubts most Dalish know enough about humans to even know that the Divine existed. Still, all avenues must be explored.

Leliana steps forward. "I wouldn't say that. No. I doubt their interest in human affairs goes beyond simply staying updated on events. If anything, I believe our prisoner was simply lucky. Or unlucky, if you prefer. Perhaps she is even being used as a scapegoat for the true villain. Maker knows most people are all too eager to blame an elf when things go awry."

Cassandra scoffs, and Leliana's blue eyes snap to her. "You doubt this?"

"It is all too convenient for the elf to be a mere observer. Appearing at the Temple can be no mere coincidence."

Leliana nodds. "Exactly. Think of it: what is the best way to frame someone? Make sure they are found at the scene of the crime. Make it so very obvious that they _must_ be involved, and people will look no further. I do not believe the situation is as simple as you make it out to be, Cassandra." Leliana's voice raises, as if preparing for Cassandra's inevitable disagreement. "It's incredibly unlikely that the rift would open just as our soldiers were patrolling the area, as if delivering her directly to them. And let us not forget that the scouts are claiming they saw a figure behind our prisoner within the Fade."

_A figure? Another conspirator? _"What? Explain."

Leliana's response is more hesitant, uncertain."The scouts are claiming they saw a figure behind the prisoner as she tumbled out of the rift. A woman, glowing with golden light. We've kept it quiet for now, until we know more."

Cullen can make half a dozen guesses as to what the figure may have been, but he knows less of the Fade than Solas. "What was it? he asks the mage.

"I am uncertain." The way his fingers clench into fists declare how difficult it is for him to admit that. "It could have been anything. A trick of the light, a trick of the mind. Or perhaps a spirit of the Fade."

Leliana's next words are hushed with something very close to reverence. "One of the scouts is claiming it was the figure of Andraste herself, guiding the prisoner through the Fade."

_Andraste._ Awe and understanding erupt within him. _A glowing, golden woman._ He begins to understand Leliana's adamant defense of the prisoner. "You think the prisoner was guided by Andraste."

Leliana looks down, as if embarrassed by her admission. "I know it sounds impossible, but I think it's a possibility we shouldn't ignore. It could be true, it could not be. Either way, we'll never know if she doesn't waken."

Silence reigns over the damp cellar. Cassandra is stunned into quiet for the first time Cullen has seen since the sky opened up, Solas, Leliana and Josephine lost in thought. Cullen feels numb, empty after having all the dark feelings within burned away by awe and surprise. The few thoughts left to him rattle around his skull. _Impossible to survive the explosion. Divine intervention. Blessed by Andraste._ With a groan, a creak of leather straps and a clatter of armor Cullen picks himself up off the floor and voices one final question.

"What do we do now?"

Its Josephine who eventually provides an answer. "For now? We do as we have been doing. We try to contain the Breach, we build alliances and look for a solution. All that has changed is that we are now waiting for her to wake up as well."

Another pause, another heavy silence. Josephine crumbles to the pressure of it first. "Well, then. If that is all, I must be going. A great many nobles have been demanding answers. I have dozens of letters to answer."

Cullen takes advantage of the opportunity. "And I should be getting back to the valley. Our plans for the valley's defense need revising." He spares only a single glance over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs to see the three remaining staring at the body of the prisoner, with three different kinds of hope. He shakes off the urge to go back down the steps, to join his companions in their vigil. He can do nothing just sitting there, but he can do _something_ in the valley. He can fight, defend from the encroaching waves of demons. Maybe even save a few lives. He resolves to drive this whole situation from his mind, to focus his attention where it is needed. That protection, that _duty_ will become his world.

Three days later his world changes again.

**Author's Note:**

Thank you for reading And the Path is Dark!

The story is going to be pretty much the story of the game, but not a novelization of it. Instead, I plan to focus on the moments we don't get to see, the events that happen off-screen. I'm still going to do my take on plenty of on-screen moments, but they won't be the focus of the piece. The POV won't be entirely Cullen's; Lavellan is up next chapter.

Warning: the whole story is going to contain spoilers. Tons of them.

I'm always happy to receive feedback


	2. Chapter 2- Varric

**And the Path is Dark**

**II.**

_**Those who bring harm**_

_**Without provocation to the least of His children**_

_**Are hated and accursed by the Maker.**_

Varric knows something is up.

Well, other than the hole in the very sky, of course. It's absolutely remarkable how something so impossible can become ordinary after a few days of constant screaming and killing demons. No, the sky doesn't interest him. What interests him is the way everyone except him seems to be holding their breaths.

Pentaghast has been beyond tense these past few days. Something has had her attention so firmly that _nothing_ he does seems to annoy her. And he's tried. Maker, how he's tried. Singing bawdy tavern songs outside her door while she naps, making thinly veiled allusions to her frozen heart, inquiring after the health of the stick up her ass. Instead of snapping at him and threatening to throw him in the stocks, as he has come to expect and, indeed, appreciate as part of his daily routine, she had simply grunted at him and brushed by him. Which practically screamed there was something rotten in the state of Haven.

That Nightingale lady and the Antivan were acting equally strangely. They redhead had always been, well, _off, _but the Antivan had previously had a calm that seemed nigh unshakable_._ Now the two were constantly cloistered behind closed doors, and spent their time around the camp whispering to one another. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought they were fooling around, but he had it on good authority that that ship had already come and sailed away.

The final tile in this mosaic of strange was the apostate mage. He had oh-so conveniently been in the mountains when the temple went "boom" and appeared in Haven to help. He also just so happened to be an expert on the Fade and all things in it. What crazy, random happenstance! Cassandra was acting even more stupid than usual when she allowed him to stay. _Could the cryptic elf with impossible knowledge possibly be behind the impossible events going on? Nah, of course not. That would make far too much sense. _Varric is, of course, not supposed to know this Solas guy has been doing something for Cassandra. Fortunately for Varric, Cassandra greatly overestimates the thickness of the walls and greatly underestimates Varric's determination to sniff out things she wants to keep from him. However, despite all his efforts, she and the other leaders of the motley mess of survivors had managed to keep a few things from him. Namely, whatever they had hidden in the basement of the Chantry.

If the commander, Cullen, had been around Varric may have been able to weasel some hints out of the had learned quite a bit about the former-templar over a few "friendly drinks." He was entirely incapable of lying and had the useful habit of stuttering when surprised or put on edge. Unfortunately, he came running out of the Chantry three days previous as if someone had set fire to his big furry cloak and had been hiding at the forward camps since. Varric knew it was unreasonable to think the man was hiding from him, but considering the few times he had managed the trek down there only to find the Commander off somewhere on "important business…" Well, it made a man wonder.

Varric_ can _guess that whatever they're hiding has something to do with the Breach. From their few conversations Varric has gathered that Solas disdains the Chantry and everything Andrastian. Yet, the elf has been spending every waking moment in the building, looking completely drained every time he emerges. Maybe it's some form of magical artifact that requires the apostate's suspicious expertise.

There _have_ been a few quiet whispers amongst the scouts that Varric's hired ears have picked up. His contact had overheard a group of scouts muttering amongst themselves. They had said something about a prisoner being recovered, possibly from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. His contact hadn't been able to catch any more of their conversation before a messenger called them away on something or other. The group had been sent on a long-range scouting mission to the south the very next morning. Which was _very _suspicious, but didn't explain why Solas would be needed to interrogate a prisoner. Besides, no additional meals were being delivered to the Chantry (he had to bribe several kitchen helpers more than he would have liked to check), so that ruled out the possibility of some prisoner being held in the basement. Unless, of course, they were denying the prisoner meals…

Bah! The situation is all such a tangled mess of maybes and could-bes. And now, in the midst of fighting demons with two-foot-long claws for hands, is not the best time to be examining ideas.

The fighting doesn't calm Varric like it should, like it had back in Kirkwall. The _flow_ that there had always been alongside Hawke is gone. Yeah, the bald elf is a plenty good mage, but he doesn't laugh when an enemy falls like Hawke did. He doesn't call out marks for Varric to pick off. He doesn't stab demons with his staff just as often as he casts spells.

"_Are you sure that's a good idea, Hawke?"_

"_What?" she pauses, looks up at Varric from across his table at the Hanged Man. She has a giant knife, halfway to being a sword, on the table next to her staff and is struggling to wrap a leather tie around the both of the weapons to hold the two together. He gestures at the mess of steel and wood, asking a question without having to say anything. She's indignant. "Having a staby bit on the end of this thing makes it easier to defend when something gets too close."_

"_I would think with the number of times you drop that thing on your foot you would avoid putting sharp things on it." The tenuous knot holding the hilt of the knife to the bottom of the staff falls apart. Hawke, unfazed, picks up the knife to try again. She always was one to take the skull-versus-wall approach to problems._

"_Think again, my furry friend," Hawke says with a grin, gesturing at his copious chest hair with the knife. "I'm as graceful as a fucking swan with a spear. This will be just like one. Just… backwards. And terribly off balance." _

Battle after Hawke is silent except for cries of pain and grunts of effort. There's no teasing, no taunts, no laughter. Varric feels a pang of something suspiciously like loneliness _which he really doesn't need right now! _before making a pin-cushion out of a shade.

The unwelcome influx of memories is thankfully interrupted by the arrival of two more people. Varric is forced to reevaluate his prisoner theory the moment the unfamiliar elf hops down into the fray and starts firing off spells. He doesn't miss that Cassandra is sticking to her side like a burr, cutting glances at her that can't decide if they're glares or not, or that Solas actually _stops_ fighting to stare for a moment. Whoever the mage is, she's important. And she's likely what's been hiding in the Chantry basement. _There will be time for introductions and prying questions later_, Varric assures himself, and instead focuses on keeping the demons from making mincemeat of the mysterious new arrival.

When the last of the demons collapses to the ground with the most discomforting groan the rift above their heads begins to screech and sing. The shape changes, turning from sharp, jagged crystals of _elsewhere_ to ribbons that threaten to coalesce into a door. Varric has seen this several times. Eventually the ribbons will weave together and make a portal large enough for the monsters to slip through yet again. Luckily, they have almost an hour to get clear before it happens again. Varric turns towards the pile of boards blocking the way down towards the forward camps, _I'm either going to have to clamber over that thing or crawl under. It's so damned undignified being a dwarf here. No one makes anything the right size. _but Solas yelling something over the screaming of the rift makes him turn back.

Solas grabs the other elf's wrist, _and judging by that glare she does NOT like that, nonono,_ and forces her hand up and towards the rift. Light erupts from the woman's palm, streaming towards the rift and twining with the ribbons coming out of the tear in the world. The light spreads from her palm, spreading under her skin and lighting up each vein and artery. Varric is reminded of the way Fenris's marks would glow, how they would radiate something that was like nothing else. This, this is even more wild. More, well, _magical_.

With a gut-wrenching scream the elf collapses to her knees and the rift shatters. Varric flinches away from the burst of light and sound, hiding his face in his elbow. When the ringing in his ears finally fades he looks over at the thin figure struggling to her feet, Solas hovering at her side like a particularly worried bird. _Mother hen, I think the phrase is. _But who cares about Solas, the newcomer closed the rift. Closed. The. Rift. And lived!

_This is the stuff of __**legends**_. His fingers itch to pick up a pen, to record this very moment for the world. Of course, the heroine slumped over in the snow will have to be changed. He twists the situation with his imagination, crafting it into a better story. _The elf's pale, golden hair caught up in the breeze, standing tall with the faintest bit of haughtiness on her features and blood splattered across her face in the most __**badass**__ of ways. She's every inch the hero._ However, there are a few things his imagination can't top: the way the rift's dying shriek echoes off the surrounding cliffs; the way she had leapt into battle with zero hesitation. The elf is even fucking _glowing!_ _Even Hawke never managed to __**glow**__. _

There's no way in hell Cassandra is going to keep him out of this. Whatever this is. And the best way to do that would be to go over her head, ingratiate himself to the hero herself. He tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves, straightening his coat before putting on his best charming-knave-swagger and strolling up to her.

"I don't know how the hell you managed that, but I'm glad you came along." He sticks out a hand, offering the shake. "Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong." He drops a condescending wink for Cassandra and relishes in the grimace she doesn't even bother to stamp down. _Ah. There's the Seeker I know and despise._

The woman's hair covers her eyes, but Varric can practically feel her stare burning holes into his palm. He catches a glimpse of ink on chin through the wave of hair and feels like an idiot. _Dalish. Of course. She has no idea what a handshake is._ He remembers it took over an hour of trying to explain to Merril why anyone would want to hold a stranger's hand. Varric lets the hand fall to his side and notices the way the elf's shoulders relax a slight bit. After two more deep breaths the elf manages to choke out a greeting, if one can call it that. "Nice crossbow you have there."

Varric smiles in approval. _This newcomer may just be an alright sort, if she can spot how special Bianca is._ He begins to wax poetic about the weapon, but the woman has already turned towards Solas, her stare directed at him now. Varric feels a bit miffed, he's the one talking here, but forgives her when she starts asking the questions he wants the answers to.

"What did you do?" The elf is quiet, but Varric can still hear well enough. The accusation behind her words doesn't sound dangerous when masked with the lilting tone to her voice, reminiscent of Merril's rounded words.

"_I_ did nothing. The credit is yours." Solas replies with a bit of a smile, still staring at her like she's some kind of miracle. _And she is_, Varric figures. _If she can close the rifts, she's something truly special._

The woman pauses long enough that Solas begins to fidget. She hasn't moved her head at all, so Varric guesses she's staring a hole in Solas's big, bald head. "You mean the mark did this," she manages finally. The burr on her pronunciation of her rs betrays an association with Starkhaven. "I know I have never been able to do this before."

Solas simply shrugs. "Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark may be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake. And it seems I was correct."

_That_ catches Cassandra's attention. She almost smiles as she takes her place by the newcomer's side. Cassandra, smiling. _That just ain't right._ "Meaning it could also close the Breach itself."

Solas seems reluctant to give an answer, but he gives one anyway. "Possibly." He glances at Cassandra just long enough to deliver the one word before looking back to the woman. More silence. More staring. _Well, this is awkward._

"Just who are you, anyway?" the elf asks Solas, her tone abrupt. _Not one for pleasantries, is she?_ Varric stifles a snort at the way Solas startles.

"My name is Solas." He offers a crooked smile. Varric curses the angle he's at and his inability to see the elf's face. He's sure her expression is priceless. "I am pleased to see you still live."

Cassandra leans towards the elf to mutter, no doubt trying to keep Varric from overhearing. Foolish Seeker, Tethrases have notoriously keen ears. "He kept the mark from spreading as you slept."

The newcomer makes no effort to keep her words secret, and Varric likes her even more for it. "You seem to know a great deal about it all." Her tone is careful, purposefully light, but it doesn't change the underlying message. She's suspicious. Smart.

Surprisingly, Solas seems to approve of her suspicion just as much as he does. Cassandra speaks up, abandoning her whispers. "Like you, Solas is an apostate."

"Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra." Solas chastises. A distant scream echoes over the frozen river beside him, and Varric is familiar enough with rifts opening to recognize the sound. He tunes out Solas's next words _blahblah walking the Fade blahblah strange magic blahblah. Good to know _in favor of climbing over the pile of wood to get a better look down the river. He can sees the ghostly form of a wraith drift around the river bend. They're going to have a fight on their hands if they're going toward the forward camps. And it would only be proper for him to offer assistance._ Yep, getting to see the hero in action is just a nice side benefit. I'm so selfless._

"Hey!" Varric calls over his shoulder, keeping an eye on the demons drifting over the ice. "You guys may want to get a move on before more demons show up. They _are_ raining from the sky, you know."

"We must get to the forward camp quickly," Cassandra says from somewhere behind him. Footsteps crunch the snow underfoot.

"Whatever you say." Varric starts his way down the slope. A shade stands in the middle of the river a couple hundred yards away. It hasn't noticed him.

"What? Where are you going!" Cassandra's voice raises and her Nevarran accent gets thicker with each word. "You aren't coming with us!"

"Yes, I am. You need my help to get to the camps, don't deny it." Varric unslings Bianca, cranks back the string, and loads a bolt.

"No! No, I demand you turn around and go back to Haven. I command it!"

"Bite me," Varric calls back as he lines up his shot, grinning to himself.

_This is going to be one hell of an adventure._

**Author's Note: **

Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed or favorited!

I debated on whether or not to publish this chapter. It doesn't advance the story much at all, but writing Varric's perspective was a ton of fun. I wanted to explore his reaction to the whole situation a bit. The next chapter will definitely be either Lavellan or Cullen's, though.

As you can tell, I've changed around some events. Several things about the opening didn't make sense to me, such as everyone in Haven knowing who you are, and that you tumbled out of a rift. That seems like the kind of information the advisors, Leliana in particular, would be desperate to keep quiet. Knowing that the Divine's supposed murderer lives seems like the kind of thing that could start a riot. When the whole "coming out of the Fade itself" bit is added in, it makes the situation only more volatile. I think the advisors (or at least my interpretation of them) would have tried to keep your existence as quiet as they could, at least until you woke up.

Following that line of thought, Varric wouldn't know who you are. Cassandra is the only one of the advisors who has reason to talk to him, and she certainly wouldn't tell him, considering their antagonistic relationship. That said, Varric has his own spy network and loves to piss off Cassandra, so he would have dug into it a bit, if only just to spite Cassandra, and thus would have _some_ idea of what's going on. Hence this chapter.

I've also taken some rights with the dialogue in order to make the scene flow correctly and fit my interpretation of characters.

As always, feedback is welcome! If you think of a way to improve the chapter or my writing in general, please don't hesitate to point it out!

**To my reviewers:**

**Juliet: **Thanks! And I totally agree. I've been wanting to romance Cullen since he ran away from my Surana in flirt-induced fear in Origins. I was really surprised by how deep his story was. And hella adorable, of course. **PurplePatherOfDoom: **Oh my Maker, that ending. The moment I beat the game I freaked out for about fifteen minutes, then immediately rolled another elf to 'mance Solas. Expect a story/drabble incoming based on that. I don't know when that will be out, since I'm still working through that playthrough, but it will come out eventually. And if you want to write something, go for it! It's really rewarding.


	3. Chapter 3, Part 1- Lavellan

**And the Path is Dark**

**III. Lavellan**

_**Maker, my enemies are abundant.**_

_**Many are those who rise up against me.**_

* * *

><p><em>I really, really, hate the snow.<em> Clumps of the stuff had gotten into the top of her boots when she fell over earlier, and now it's thawing. The water creeps down her ankles and pools around her heels, chilling her feet to the point of being unfeeling. _I swear, the moment I get out of here I'm moving to anywhere where sand is more abundant than snow. Maybe Seheron. Living in a constant war zone seems a small price to pay for warm, dry feet._

A demon's roar and an answering cry of pain off in the distance makes all too clear how ridiculous she is being. The very nightmare of millions has just been made real, and she is whinging about cold toes. Absolutely ridiculous.

Then again, the petty grumbling keeps her mind occupied and keeps her from collapsing into the snow and having a good, hard scream. So it's probably for the best all around if she stays distracted.

It's all a bit much to take in at once, really. Her day began with waking up _very_ hungry in a dim cell, then getting man-handled into a kneeling position by a couple of _very_ rude soldiers and coming to the uncomfortable realization that there was something _very_ wrong with her left hand. She was introduced to Cassandra, then swiftly was accused of blowing up the Conclave (which she hadn't even been aware was in a blown-up state). Oh, the Fade was pouring into the world, demons running amok, and it was all apparently her fault. And _of course_ she couldn't even remember enough to refute it. And the best bit of all: a piece of some magic she didn't recognize was embedded in her hand and it was _killing_ her.

All-in-all, Varenya had had better mornings.

Somehow, the day had gotten better as it went on. Being let out of the dungeon did wonders for her mood and being let off-leash to blast demons back to the Fade helped. She'd never really been one for combat, but using her magic… that she lived for.

Meeting new people had been nice as well, if a bit uncomfortable. Cassandra may hate her for supposedly opening a hole in the sky, but she had let her keep the staff she found, so Varenya assumes she is likely a reasonable enough sort under all that rage and zealotry. The dwarf, _Varric, I think his name is,_ seems friendly enough. And if he's willing to draw Cassandra's ire away from her… all the better.

Solas... Solas is a liar. There was no way he is simply a self-taught apostate, not with his knowledge. How had he kept the mark from spreading? Where had he learned to do so? She was the First of her clan and she could only begin to guess what she bore. Where would an untrained apostate learn more? And when he grabbed her wrist… she had sensed an overwhelming power that crackled between the two of them like a summer storm, fierce and wild. The chords of their power had twisted and spiraled together, synchronizing with one another before matching the melody of the rift. What that could mean, what it implied… well, that was a bit complex of a thought for now. _And seriously, what kind of person kept a name that meant "pride?"_

Despite her reservations, Varenya cannot be too bitter about her situation. The three of her companions are all dedicated to righting the wrong that is the Rifts, and they're all willing to fight to protect her and the mark she bears on the off chance she is able to close them. Solas and Cassandra seem to think the magic of the mark may be able to affect the Breach, so here they are: racing through the valley to the forward camp and the temple.

The song of the rift as they hike up the hillside warns Varenya to grip her staff tighter, to still her center and reach for her magic. _Calm as still waters, serene as a spring breeze._ Water squelches between her toes and Varenya winces._ Blasted swamp feet. I swear once we're done here I'm going to curl up in front of a fire until the end of days._ With a sigh and a deep breath Varenya struggles to empty her mind once again, and begins to cast. Her magic comes, sluggish and slow, syrup instead of the liquid lightning she's so accustomed to. She hasn't had this hard a time mastering her mind since she was a teenager, easily distracted by all manner of stupid things. For just a moment, Varenya longs for the feel of weathered ironbark beneath her fingers, polished by over a decade of her caresses, familiar and safe, instead of this rough oak. Her self-chastisement comes just as quickly as her wishes. _I'm no longer a child, I do not need such crutches._ She slams a door on her wishes, her longing, her frustration, confusion and near-hysteria. There is only the battle and the storm crackling at her fingertips. Soon the demons are nothing but smoldering carcasses and dust, leaving only the rift to master.

This second time connecting to the rift is easier. The first time she barely remembers beyond crackling magic, an incredible pain, and panic. This time she doesn't need Solas to grab her wrist. This time she can feel on her own the way the Rift calls out to her, how it tugs at the mark on her palm. The two magics reach out one another, keening in harmony. Varenya can feel the press of the Fade, the way it weeps into this world through the tear in the Veil. She can feel the edges of the hole, the frayed edges where they've been rent asunder. Without being able to put into words exactly what she's doing, Varenya reaches for the tattered fabric with the magic within the mark. She weaves the mark's magic, weaves _herself_, into it, every ounce of her being thrumming with energy. She pulls the two edges together, tugging and guiding them, until the magics within begin to knit themselves together once again.

Varenya is reminded of lessons with the Keeper about how the body works, of how to guide torn muscles and fractured bone together once again to prompt them to heal. _The body wants to be whole_ the Keeper had told her._ It just needs your help to remember the shape it must become_. The process of repairing the Veil is not entirely dissimilar, although this is so much _easier_ than healing. This magic _wants _to flow through her, as smoothly as her breath, as fluid as her blood. The Fade, these Rifts, this mark, are a part of her.

So deeply is this magic within her, so completely has she managed to weave herself into the mending fabric of the Fade, she no longer knows how to extract herself. The fabric of the Veil pulses around her, reknitting itself complete around where she had embedded her essence into the tear. A horrible sense of fear shudders down her spine and reverberates through the Veil. Distantly, she can sense spirits stir, demons awoken by her. They are spiders, and she the fly who plucks at the threads of their webs. She can feel their interest, their hunger. The material of the Fade continues to close around her, siphoning her magic and her very being. She knows that if she cannot extract herself, she will likely be drawn into the Void. Her magic will feed the Veil, and whatever remains of herself will be devoured by demons.

Varenya begins to thrash against the Veil, testing her bindings in earnest, attempting to pull herself free. The demons creep closer, the Veil clings tighter. Panic chokes her, squeezes her lungs and stutters her heart. She can feel her body screaming, but the only sound she hears is the singing of the Fade. She thrashes, tugs, and shakes, but the grip of the Veil does not loosen. _This is it, this is how it ends_ a part of her whispers, and the rest of her snarls back in rage. _No, it does NOT! I will not allow it!_ A sudden strength floods her, a magic that tastes unlike anything else she's ever called up before. Varenya wrenches herself from the Veil, sundering her being, leaving small bits of her essence behind in the closed hole, like a hare leaves fur in a slipped trap.

When the echoes of the Rift finally fade and her awareness finally returns to Thedas, Varenya finds her companions staring at her with wide eyes and slack mouths. Varric and Cassandra wear twin expressions of equal parts shock and concern. Solas's is a bit… different. The concern is there in spades, yes, as well as shock. But the frowning wrinkle between his eyes bespeaks consternation and frustration. _Yeah, you and me both, kinsman._ Varenya is fairly certain next time they encounter a Rift she'll feel the subtle guidance of Solas's magic rather than risk her unraveling again.

Varenya goes to stand. In an instant, Cassandra and Solas are by her side, each grabbing an arm to haul her to her feet. "The Rift is closed." Cassandra calls out to the closed gate before them. "Let us in." There's an answering clank of armored people shuffling atop the wall.

"By the Maker, what happened out there?!" the guards call back as Cassandra steps forward to better speak with them, leaving Varenya to put the bulk of her weight on Solas. "How did that happen?!"

"It was maaaaaaagic." Varenya mumbles beneath her breath and flutters her fingers, her words dripping bitter sarcasm. Solas chokes on a startled chuckle and Varric's head snaps to look at her before a slow grip creeps across his face. Belatedly, Varenya realizes this is only the second time she's spoken in front of the two men. Earlier she had been so determined to contain her nearly hysterical inner monologue she had forgone speaking entirely, communicating instead with nods or the occasional grunt._ They must think I'm an utter savage. Well, there will be time to remedy that latter, assuming we don't all die horribly first._

Whatever explanation Cassandra shouts at the gate is good enough for them. The wooden doors swing open with the groan of straining wood and the creak of poorly-oiled hinges. Cassandra pulls aside someone who looks to be a messenger, mutters a few words to him, and gestures at a bench for Varenya before going to join a redheaded woman Varenya recognizes from the dungeon.

Varenya collapses onto the bench with an exhausted sigh. Varric settles himself in on the bench beside her, while Solas stands at her right side and watches her as if he's afraid she's going to topple over any second. It's not an unreasonable fear. A soldier who looks to be a scout offers her both a water skin and some kind of jerky. Varenya forces herself to accept them with a small smile and a word of thanks instead of ripping them from his hands as her forgotten hunger roars back to life with a vengeance.

"So," Varric begins, rubbing at a scuff on the stock of his crossbow with feigned nonchalance. "That second Rift was… different."

Varenya forces herself to swallow the jerky instead of speaking around it. _Not a savage, not a savage_. "Yes, it was." Her answer is just as falsely nonchalant as the dwarf's.

Varric stares down his sights, then adjusts a crank. "Any theories as to why?"

Varenya hesitates, reluctant to reveal Solas's guidance on the first Rift. He had been adamant that she had closed the Rift fully under her own power, although she knew perfectly well he had quite the hand in it. Perhaps he had a good reason for hiding his level of expertise... And his help had saved her life… "I'm not sure. The first time I acted on instinct." Varenya cuts a significant look at Solas and his eyebrows twitch almost imperceptibly. He knows she's lying for him. Good. "The second time I… dove in, I guess. I tried to understand what I had done. And I got overwhelmed. Stuck. I had a hard time… getting out."

"Well, at least you did. Get out, that is." Varric seems confused by her explanation, but he shrugs his acceptance anyway.

A shouting match between Cassandra, the red-head and a man in Chantry garb interrupts their conversation and steals their attention. The man is by far the loudest of the trio. "I hereby order you to take the prisoner to Val Royeaux to face immediate execution!"

His declaration should worry her, Varenya supposes, but she's too tired to care much. Death would at least be a respite from strange magic and snow. That, and it's difficult to take the man seriously with his red face, and his cheeks puffed out like a petulant child denied the last of the sweet summer berries.

"He's seriously trying to boss around both hands of the Divine! Where the hell is keeping all that authority? Under his fancy little hat?" Varric mutters to Varenya. It may not earn a laugh, but it does prompt a smile.

"You would think they would be more concerned with the giant hole in the sky." Varenya mutters back, tearing off another piece of jerky. She remembers her manners and offers it to both Solas and Varric. Solas declines with a small smile and a shake of his head. Varric happily takes it and chomps down.

"I agree. The Breach is more of a concern than whether or not your head ends up on a pike." Solas comments mildly, eyes fixed on the Chantry man.

"What a pleasant image, Chuckles." Varric glares at the apostate. "Mighty comforting for our companion here."

The two devolve into squabbling; "I meant no offense!" "Yeah, well, whether you not you meant it doesn't matter in the end." Varenya smiles from her place between the two. The arguing is oddly comforting. The sky may be broken open, demons may walk the earth, but there is still time for jokes and petty arguments: moments of normalcy peppered through the ending of the world. _Yes,_ Varenya thinks to herself, mouth full of jerky and ears full of bickering, _this day is looking up indeed._

**Author's Note:**

I've finally gotten around to Lavellan's chapter! I kept debating between posting her chapter or Cullen's as the first part of chapter 3, since they occur partially concurrently. There's going to be a second half to this chapter out later this week, but from Cullen's perspective.

I'm not too happy with how this chapter came out. Varenya Lavellan is really difficult to write. I have this clear image of who she is, but it's really difficult to express it, which is a large part of the reason why this chapter took forever to write. Hopefully as the story goes on, I can convey her personality more fully.

This chapter I gave my interpretation of how closing a rift would feel. It's far too simple in the game. Just wave your hand and poof! no more Rift. That doesn't make much sense; it's a complex magic that, even by the time you reach Skyhold, most mages can't even begin to understand. I've decided to make it a bit more complicated.


	4. Chapter 3, Part 2- Cullen

**And the Path is Dark**

**III. Cullen**

_**But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,**_

_**Should they set themselves against me.**_

* * *

><p>"The prisoner has woken up."<p>

It's astounding, the damage that three little words can do to someone's day. It hadn't been a good day, by any means, but it had been normal. Well, whatever had stood for normal this past week. Now the world is upside down once again as Leliana tells him Cassandra is interrogating the prisoner. She summarizes Solas's suspicions about the prisoner and the mark she bears. Cullen forces himself to pay attention, although he wants to do nothing more than ignore it and go about his day crafting defense plans. _I'm not a templar anymore, _he wants to tell her. _The mage is __**your**__ responsibility._ He almost does, too, but Leliana interrupts him by delivering her last bit of news.

"Cassandra is bringing the prisoner here, to the forward camp."

Silence reigns supreme in his mind for a single shocked moment before being overthrown by a multitude of objections. The loudest of them clamor to be spoken. _That's absolutely ridiculous. Cassandra has gone mad. Bringing a prisoner to the front lines is just asking for trouble. Sod off._ However the only thing he manages to voice is "Wait… what?"

"The prisoner is being brought here. I know it's slightly unorthodox, but Solas believes her mark is the key to closing the Breach. Considering the Breach's pulses have been coming more and more frequently… we must settle it before something terrible happens again."

_Of course the apostate would be the root of this idea. Bloody mages._ A bit of resentment bubbles into being somewhere within his chest. "This is foolish. We have no way to be certain of the prisoner's loyalty. We can't trust her."

Leliana sighs and rubs her forehead, as if she's dealing with a particularly irksome child. The bubble of resentment continues to grow. "It's past the point where the loyalty of the prisoner matters. The situation cannot get much worse than it already is. While it may be a long-shot, we must try _something_. It's not as if the prisoner can do more damage at this point."

Cullen wants to yell at her, tell her this is beyond stupid, because no matter how bad something is, magic can _always_ find a way to make it worse. He bites his tongue instead. He knows Leliana will not appreciate his protests, and indeed, even he wouldn't agree with his own arguments if today was just another day. He'll feel differently about the prisoner when the sun shines brighter and the sky isn't broken and he hasn't spent the previous night suffering from a barrage of unending nightmares. He already knows they don't have a way to stop the Breach; any change the prisoner can offer them at survival, however slim, is greater than what they have now.

"You're right, of course," he admits with a sigh. He massages his temples with his fingertips, trying to beat back his growing headache. "What would you have me do?"

"Hold the valley. Try to drive the demons back. We intend to try for the Temple of Sacred Ashes once the prisoner arrives."

"Fight and fortify. How long do we have to hold?"

"Until we no longer have a reason to, one way or another."

* * *

><p>"Hold, men! Hold!" Cullen calls out as he swings his blade, the steel biting deep into the twisted flesh of a demon. "Don't let them break our line!" The demons have been harrying the front camp since midday in waves, each coming hotter on the heels of the last. Cullen spares a thought for his men defending the Temple proper. He prays they haven't been overrun. He prays that he hasn't ordered them to their deaths, like he has done to so many others. Their bodies lay in neat rows in the camp, wrapped in what linens they can spare. As the days have dragged on, linen has become more and more scarce. The living need bandages more than the dead need shrouds, so many of the corpses lay bare, sightless eyes staring emptily into the broken sky. Each blank face is a reminder, an <em>accusation<em>. He is not fit to lead them. If he was, then the bodies of hundreds wouldn't be stacked up, like so much firewood, waiting to be burnt. If he was fit to lead them, then it would be songs of victory instead of funerary chants that drift through the valley.

But, as ever, now is not the time for such thoughts.

To Cullen's right, a young man, barely old enough to be a recruit, falters. A shade lunges forward, swiping at the boy, trying to bring him down. With a yell and a lunge Cullen pushes the boy aside, taking his place. The demon's claws meet the steel of his blade, screeching with rage. Cullen winces at the creature's scream and pushes back, twisting his sword to bite into the demon's palms. The demon flinches backwards, fleeing the bite of his steel. Cullen takes the opportunity to bring the blade up and to the side, beheading the demon in a single smooth motion.

Cullen turns back to the recruit. He offers a hand to haul the boy to his feet. "Are you alright?" Cullen asks. The lad gapes instead of speaking, his gawking stare locked firmly on something over Cullen's right shoulder. The Commander whips around to face down whatever has stolen the boy's wits and attention so fully.

A woman stands on the edge of a crumbling wall, the sun burning a golden halo around her slim form. Leliana's words from his visit to the prisoner echo in his mind; _The scouts are claiming they saw a figure behind the prisoner as she tumbled out of the rift. A woman, glowing with golden light. Andraste._ The moment freezes in time, as if held in stasis by it's importance. Dully, as if from afar, Cullen wonders if the world is truly shaking beneath his feet, if time has truly stopped.

A heartbeat later she steps forward, and blocks the sun's glare. Cullen can see her face, now that he's no longer blinded by the light. The figure's shadowed face resolves into tattoos and pointed ears. Not Andraste, the prisoner. For the first time, he can see her face in truth, but he doesn't notice much about her features beyond her pale hair lit aflame by the sun; he's too busy staring at her eyes. Eyes which glow the same unsettling green as the Breach that storms overhead and burn with the same fury.

A snarl twists her lips, eyes flood with disgust. She raises her right hand, her fingers splayed, pointed directly at Cullen. Her lips dance over something, some curse or cry he cannot hear over the rushing in his ears. Wisps of magic whirl down her fingers, roiling and swirling at the tips, coalescing into frost. Cullen can feel the power behind the cloud of ice hanging in the air, the magic straining to erupt from within the woman. And then it isn't straining anymore, it is released. A spear of ice, called into existence by the mage, hurtles through the air towards him.

He struggles to move, to bring up his blade and smack the spear down or to twist to the side and away. Instead of the swift practiced movements he knows, his limbs drag at the rest of him, slowing his movements. He braces himself, expecting the cold sting of ice to bite into his chest. But the bite never comes. Instead, the spear sails safely over his right shoulder, only to bury itself in the maw of a demon which had been lunging forward to swipe at his open back.

The moment shatters around him, and time snaps back to its proper pace, sound flooding his ears. He stumbles as his limbs catch up with the rest of him. He manages to bring up his sword to block as the demon, injured but still alive, howls and jumps at him. He parries a single swipe before lightning strikes the demon and it falls to the ground, it's carcass reeking of seared flesh.

The prisoner leaps from the wall and lands on her feet beside Cullen as he takes a moment to catch his breath. Her eyes, so bright they seem to glow, meet his for a single breath, a single heartbeat. She offers him a single nod, a gesture of respect, before she turns away, her staff spinning end-over-end in her deft hands. The battle-cadence returns then, drumming away within his chest, and he returns to the dirty work of killing.

With the addition of the prisoner and her team, it's scant minutes before the demons die. The rift overhead shrieks and dissolves into amorphous ribbons as Cullen collects his troops. They have a moment to rest, to regroup, and to have the dead collected by Chantry sisters. His turns to a lieutenant, about to issue orders, when a shift in the magic of the rift overwhelms his templar-trained senses, feeling like nothing else but a punch in the gut. He doubles over as a headache explodes within his skull and his senses _scream_. A few deep breaths later, he manages to look up.

The prisoner stands before the rift, her left hand outstretched. Threads of viridian light pulse and dance between her palm and the rift. Beneath her thin sleeve the same light burns alongs her veins, before vanishing beneath the thick leather of her vest. Her lips fall open, slack, echoing the empty expression in her eyes. The light pulses and whirs, the rift screams and sings, until life returns to her form in a rush. Her eyes narrow and her lips snarl, just as they had before she launched that ice spear, as if she's still in battle. Her left hand clenches in a fist and she wrenches it to the side. The leash of light that had tied her palm to the rift snaps, and with an ear-shattering blast the rift slams shut, vanishing, as if it were never there at all.

Cullen distantly takes note of the way Cassandra, Solas and Varric all rush to her side, as if expecting her to tip over and the way the prisoner smiles wanly at them and steps away from their supporting hands, but notices little else. Most of his thought power is occupied with preventing hyperventilation. _Slow, deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Maker's breath, she damn well did it! 1...2...3...4… She's either Maker-sent or she made the rifts herself. Not sure I like either possibility. In...2...3...4...Out...2...3...4._ Cassandra catches his eye and starts to approach. _Maker, Cullen. Pull it together. There will be time to have an crisis later._

Cassandra outlines a vague plan. They wish to rally the troops remaining at the forward camp and charge forward. She echoes Leliana from earlier: they must get the prisoner to the Temple of Sacred Ashes; nothing else matters now. Their survival rests on a couple of unstable theories and fickle hopes. _Excellent. Just wonderful. I always wanted to die young._ A piece of him more reasonable and mature than the remainder metaphorically smacks the rest of him upside the metaphorical head. _Being bitter won't solve anything. Buck up and get that mage to the Breach. A faint hope is better than none at all. You know this._

The mage herself steps forward, leaving Solas's hovering hands and Varric's anxious smile behind her. Her eyes have yet to lose the unusual light, the impossible coloring. Cullen is left wondering if they could possibly be natural. Such a color _must_ be a result of magic, right? The soft burrs and rounded vowels of the prisoner's accent distract him from his contemplation about the origins of such an odd coloring and draw him back into the conversation. "You are going to be leading the charge?"

"Yes, I am." Cullen snaps back into his Commander role, back straight and expression downright cold. "And you're the one capable of closing rifts. I hope they're right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here." His bitterness is all too obvious.

The prisoner's face immediately goes blank, the flicker of friendliness in the curve of her lips guttering out and dying. Her gaze bores into Cullen's, and he resists the urge to fidget under its weight. "I hope they're right, too." Her voice is controlled, and perfectly expressionless. A bit of regret stabs at him; if she's truly an innocent in all this then she's done nothing to deserve his cruelty. He dismisses the regret just as quickly as it came; if she proves herself, there will be plenty of time to apologize later.

She turns away, goes to leave. Cullen is struck with a sudden thought. This woman is willing to risk her life for the chance of closing the rift, and he knows nothing about her other than the fact she's been held prisoner by his people. If she dies, there will be no time for apologies. He'll be unable to thank her, to honor her sacrifice. He doesn't even know her name. "Wait," he speaks before he even knows he's going to ask. When her stare pins on him he fights down the surge of embarrassment and forges onward with his question. "What's your name?"

The elf freezes, her shoulders going tense and her mouth falling open. He's surprised her. Her mouth closes and opens again, once, twice, before managing to make her voice work. "Varenya. Varenya of clan Lavellan."

"Varenya, then." His words are soft, gentler than anything he's said to her before. "May you make it to the Breach. Maker guide your steps." Her eyes widen even further and she nods quickly, _nervously?_ before turning away from him and pointing herself towards the Temple, and the Breach within.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later finds Cullen amidst the corpses of demons, recovering from the charge towards the Temple. As Cullen wipes the blood from his blade he finds his mind drifting back to the prisoner. <em>Varenya,<em> he reminds himself. _Her name is Varenya_. Her appearance is… not what he is used to. She is distinct. Striking. His mother had used that word occasionally, when she was being too polite to call someone ugly. That's not what he means by the word. She's not ugly, just like she's not typically beautiful. There's just no other word he knows to describe her.

Everything about her face is just… _too much._ Her eyes are too intense to for him to be comfortable under her scrutiny. Her skin is too pale, it's nearly colorless, her lips a bloody contrast. . Her features are all sharp: sharp ears; sharp jawline; high, sharp cheekbones. One would almost fear to cut himself on them. Every expression, every movement, radiates precision. And her personality seems to match. She was cool, composed even in the face of extermination. Demons diving at her face did not faze her, she only snarled back at them and blasted them away. Even Cullen's casual cruelty hadn't tripped her up. The only time she had hesitated, the only time she had faltered, was when he had asked her a simple question. When he had asked her her name. When he had wished her luck.

His lieutenant clears her throat, grabbing at Cullen's attention. His troops stare at him, waiting for his orders. He gives the hasty order to move out, even as he feels his cheeks threatening to pink. He busies himself with sheathing his blade and tightening his gauntlets to hide the rising color. Maker help him, he's been caught daydreaming during the apocalypse. _Now is not the time_, he reminds himself sternly, even though he knows it's a lost cause. He typically can master his thoughts, but sometimes there's just no helping it. And it happens all too often because of trouble-making, pretty mages.

_I'm in trouble,_ the wise, mature part of him acknowledges wryly, thinking of green eyes and sharp gazes. The rest of him slams an iron-clad door on that thought, locking it up tight, and marches off to battle.

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><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>

Here's the second half of Chapter 3. Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited and followed! Your support makes writing a thousand times easier! If anyone has the time to review, I would greatly appreciate the feedback. Reviews help me figure out what I'm doing right and/or wrong, and mean a better story for everyone!

Sidenote: I imagine Varenya's accent as a mix between Welsh (like Merril's) and Scottish (like Sebastian). An odd mix, to be sure.

For Lucy, who did an anonymous review: Thank you for your kind words! The cover pic is indeed Varenya. I hope you enjoy this chapter!


	5. Chapter 4- Lavellan (To be Deleted)

**IMPORTANT NOTE:**

**After almost 2 weeks of trying to write a follow-up chapter to this one and failing, I have decided to scrap the following chapter. It's pretty poorly done, and I feel like I've written myself into an awkward place with it.**

**A new chapter 4 (from Cullen's POV) is incoming soon.**

**I am leaving the following chapter up for now, until I decide what to do with it.**

* * *

><p><strong>And the Path is Dark<strong>

**Chapter IV. Lavellan**

_**All things in this world are finite.**_

_**What one man gains, another has lost.**_

* * *

><p>The whispering was driving her mad.<p>

Usually it started up mere minutes after leaving her little hut. Sometimes, if it was very late at night or very early in the morning, it would take up to ten minutes. But it never took too long. Today was one of the days it had begun the very moment she stepped out the door of the hut she was borrowing.

Whenever Varenya would whip around to confront the source, it would cut off. However, it wasn't too difficult to puzzle out where the whispers were coming from. Most people didn't have the good manners to stop staring while they pretended, poorly, as if they hadn't just been talking about her.

The whispers and stares had been relentless since she woke up after trying to seal the Breach, almost two weeks ago. The torrent of demons and pulses that promised further destruction had finally stopped, yet the hole still hung in the sky, ominous and looming.

* * *

><p>The Breach howls above their heads, raining all kinds of hell down upon them. The demons fall outside the temple and crash in waves against the soldiers holding them back. Their purpose is to keep Varenya from being overwhelmed, but it's already a bit late for that. Her legs quake and her heart pounds a furious beat against the inside of her ribs, as if trying to break free from the cage of her chest. She doesn't want to be here and she is <em>scared. <em>More scared than she's ever been before. She looks to her left where Solas waits for her. At her nod he reaches out with his magic, weaving it with hers. She breathes deeply. It almost helps. Varenya raises her left hand and, together, the elves reach for the Rift.

The moment she brushes against the Rift demons answer, ripping the tear in the Veil wider as they force their way through. Varenya struggles to keep a grip on the extraordinary magic burning through her, but the sudden warping of the Veil rips her concentration from her.

A pride demon explodes from the Rift, the shifting green light throwing hideous shadows against the spears of stone. The gathered soldiers stare up at it in a mixture of awe and panic. It raises a ponderous, clawed hand. Varenya doesn't know what it plans to do, only that whatever it is cannot be good. She dives, scrambling behind a spur of stone.

The hand falls. Lighting bursts forth from the demon's fingertips in a cruel whip. Screams, _screams_. Flesh sizzles. The touch of Solas's magic vanishes. Pride laughs.

The wails of fallen soldiers reverberate through the air, overwhelming even the unnatural singing of the Rift. Their agony floods Varenya's ears, demanding her attention, demanding her pity, her sorrow, her fear. She clamps her hands upon her ears to hinder the cries and hums vainly to wash the noise away._ Lath sulevin, lath araval ena._ The shrieks denounce her, accuse her of cowardice. _I cannot do this. I cannot do this. How am I supposed to stop __**that?**_ She reaches desperately for the comforting brush of Solas's magic, for the assurance she's not alone. She finds nothing. She shrinks further back as every last shred of bravery flees her, hoping somehow the demon will overlook her.

"Elfy! Are you okay?" Varric's voice throws itself against the futile barriers of her hands, and against her hysteria. "Where are you?"

_He needs me. He needs me. Don't have to move, just have to look._ Varenya crawls forward on hands and knees to peer around her shield. Varric shakes his head wildly, blood flowing into his left eye from a gash on his brow, looking for something. _Looking for me._ He is crouched over a limp form, in green clothes and clutching a staff. _Solas! Nononono!_

She falls back on her heels, rocking back and forth. _Solas dead. No one to help me. Nononono. _The demon chuckles as yet another soldier screams. _No way out. All going to die._

_ No, wait._ The realization washes over her like so much cold water, putting a frozen halt to her panic. _If I close the Rift, what happens to the demon?_

She doesn't give herself time to question herself, to allow fear to overtake her again. She scrambles out from behind her stone and runs to Varric, grabbing his shoulder. "We need to move Solas to safety," he yells over the din of combat. Together they drag the other elf to where she hid, safe from the battle. She is relieved to see Solas still breathes, but he doesn't stir when she shakes him. _I'll be getting no help from him with this._ Her mind clumsily trips over the scenario, crafting and rejecting half a dozen plans. _If I don't do this, no one does. I maybe die, or we all definitely do._

"Fucking hell. What do we do now?" Varric mutters, watching the destruction the demon wreaks wide-eyed.

_Shit. Hopefully simplest plan will do well enough._ "You distract it. I'll try to close the Breach."

"Oh, is that all I have to do. Fucking crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy." The dwarf grumbles, but he still unslings his crossbow and runs out to where Cassandra is shouting obscenities at the demon, unloading bolts all along the way.

Varenya takes a deep breath, hoping to center herself. She spares a thought for her absent gods. _Mythal's mercy, this is going to be impossible. I don't want to die. Falon'din, Dirthamen, Elgar'nan, even Fen'Harel. Help me. Please don't let me die._

She stands and flings her left hand out to the Rift, summoning leashes of light to connect her to the gaping tear. She drowns herself in the magic, desperately forcing the edges of the hole back together. It's sloppy and ugly and it _must work!_ Darkness overwhelms her soon enough.

* * *

><p>Varenya woke up a day later with a massive headache and a minor cult following. The fact that she had failed her mission did little to discourage the bowing and groveling, and even less to quell the rumors of her supposed brush with divinity. Although she supposes she has Leliana to thank for the rumors; the spymaster admitted to fanning those particular flames once Varenya had agreed to help the Inquisition.<p>

The people of Haven had accepted Varenya's fade-based adventures with surprisingly few accusations of heresy. Sure, there is a small, vocal faction who thought her guilty of murdering the divine and yes, there had been four attempts on her life the past week; but the vast majority of people truly seem to believe that Andraste had protected Varenya from the destruction of the conclave and guided her through the Fade itself.

The assassination attempts don't worry her terribly much. Beyond the first one, none of them had even come close to killing her. The first one tried sneaking up on her while she slept. If Varenya hadn't already been sleeping fitfully and lightly, she would have found herself a head shorter. After that incident Cassandra stuck a guard outside her door and no further attempts were made while Varenya slept. Instead, two had been made during meal times and the third while she was meditating. The weapons used were a poorly made poison she could smell in her food, a kitchen knife, and a weighted rolling pin. Sometimes Varenya wonders if her would-be assassins are even taking their attempts seriously. It's almost insulting. She chooses to view the attempts as entertaining instead.

Varric is the only one who seems to share her amusement. Cullen and Cassandra seemed indignant anyone had tried. Varenya presumes what they're truly upset over is the defiance of their authority, rather than any true fear for her well being. Oh, they were well enough worried about the safety of the Mark, but Varenya herself is another matter. Josephine does seem to care about Varenya's health, but then again the woman is so friendly and sweet it doesn't seem much of an achievement to earn her concern. The only two whose worry feels genuine and meaningful is Varric and Solas.

Varenya is still uncertain how much of Solas's concern is for her, and how much is for the Mark. Still, she believes at least _some_ of it is for her. He has made enough overtures of friendship for her to think he sees her as a person beyond the magic.

Varenya had tried to keep her distance from the other elf. He was obviously more than a simple mage. Mages were weak creatures who spent so much time reading old books and making sparks that they neglected to exercise. They could barely hold themselves up in a stiff breeze; she knew this all too well from personal experience. Mages most certainly did NOT have biceps the size of her head. And social skills. Solas was unnervingly polite for a mage, period. That went double for an apostate that supposedly spent all his time ruin-hopping. It was that very personable attitude, however, that made it difficult to keep a cold distance between them. That and he knew secrets, ancient secrets. Secrets he had offered to share with her. She had accepted in a heartbeat, of course. Solas may be of dubious character, but he is still wise and Varenya refuses to waste such opportunity.

They have lessons each day. Solas guides her magic with his own, teaching her how to wield the Mark. She understands it better now, the foreign magic that has taken up residence in her left palm. She feels it grow stronger with each passing day. It seeps into her blood and breaths, until the delicate ebbing and flowing of magic in her palm mimics the rhythm of her heartbeat. Solas says she's very talented with the magic he's been teaching her, although it is unclear how much of it stems from her and how much is the Mark's influence. Nevertheless, he believes she should be able to close the next Rift they encounter on her own, and with little pain. It brings Varenya a kind of comfort to know that although she failed to close the Breach, she will not fail the next time she tries.

More often than not, her lessons end up transforming into comfortable conversation over a mug of steaming cider, the two trading stories. He tells the most fascinating stories Varenya's ever heard, spinning tales of civilizations long gone by, reliving memories lost to time. They raise more questions than they answer, and Solas is always willing to try to answer her curiosity.

_Solas isn't the only one giving me lessons. _Varenya almost walks past her other teacher, before deciding to stop and join him beside the outdoor fire. He has a mug of what smells like cider in one hand, although knowing him it isn't cider alone.

"Good morning, Varric."

"Morning to you, too." The dwarf sips from his mug as Varenya warms her hands by the fire. It's early enough in the day that the night's chill has yet to dissipate, and she is not dressed for the cold. "You still up for a lesson in non-polite society today?"

"I am, although it will have to be this afternoon." Varric has been teaching Varenya about the civilization she's found herself a part of. There were few enough humans she could speak with while with her clan, and on her journey to the Conclave she was so worried she would offend someone and be sent away that she stuck mostly to herself. As a result, there is much she does not understand about the shemlen world. Varric does his best to satiate her curiosity. However, like Solas's lessons, Varric's often end up devolving into tale-telling and a cup of something warming. But where Solas's lessons are thoughtful and serene, Varric's tales are uproarious, designed to invoke laughter and shock in equal measures. Varenya adores them. "Would you mind if I bring Solas along as well? He mentioned an interest in your stories about Kirkwall."

Varric sighs at her question, but his slight smirk says he's not actually annoyed. If anything, it's smug pride that raises his brow and twists the corner of his lips. "Chuckles wants to come along? I really shouldn't be surprised. Seriously, it's like your kind travels in packs."

"Our kind?" Varenya is almost tempted to feign offense. "Do you mean mages or elves?"

"Well, I meant mages, but now that you mention it, elves are worse. Find one elf and there's probably another hiding under the bed. I've known one elf, **one**, who didn't have another one right behind him. Of course, he was a dangerous fugitive not interested in _anyone's_ company. And he fell in with our little band, which had another elf, quickly enough. You two are elves _and_ mages in a place where there are few of either. It's no wonder you two are glued together."

"Solas is just helping me with my magic. We aren't 'glued' together!"

"Really? Then where are you headed off to now? Stick around, have a drink!" Varric gestures with his mug at the building behind them.

Varenya really doesn't want to stick around and have a drink. The drink part is all well and good, but to do so means going in the tavern. Going in the tavern means being around awestruck villagers. Being around awestruck villagers greatly increases the chances of one of them working up the nerve to talk to her. And they use _titles_ when they speak.

Everytime someone calls her "Herald" or, gods forbid, "your Worship," Varenya grits her teeth against the urge to correct them, to screech denials. Instead, Varenya is stuck with small smiles and softly murmured words. She fears if she opens her mouth too much, all the truths she's been keeping within will come tumbling out of her. _You're wrong, I'm not chosen. I have this magic by mistake; I can barely control it. I don't even believe in your stupid Maker!_ Even though it's the truth, Varenya will not let herself voice it. Whether she likes it or not, the people of Haven have faith in her. And she is not cruel enough to kill what little hope they have found since the sky broke.

"I'm afraid I have previous plans, Varric." It is lucky she has an excuse, that she doesn't have to choose between giving in or lying.

"In that case you better get a move on. I'm sure you don't want to be late for your magic lesson."

"Ah, I still have a bit of time. My meeting isn't with Solas today, but with Leliana."

"Leliana, eh? What does our delightful spymaster want with you so early in the morning?"

Varenya shrugs; she has been wondering much of the same and has yet to come up with a clear answer. "I am uncertain. I just know she wants a few words with me before we meet with Josephine, Cassandra, and the Commander."

Varric whistles lowly and raises an appraising brow. "You have to go to a meeting with all the big kids? What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into?"

"I haven't gotten into any trouble!" Varenya protests. "I've been perfectly well behaved. My days have all been spent learning from you or Solas; I haven't even left the valley since before the Conclave." While that's true, she has _thought_ about leaving. Just the other night she contemplated stealing one of the eleven horses the Inquisition has left to its name and running north. She has a vague idea of where her clan should be. If she keeps up a good pace, she could probably be there by summer. The clan would be between Tantervale and Starkhaven then, preparing for the Arlathvhen, the gathering of the clans. She should be with her people; and at this arlathvhen especially.

"I doubt this is little summons is over nothing." Varric interrupts her thoughts with his comment.

Varenya pushes down the guilt, _I don't belong here,_ and forces a smile back at the dwarf. "Maybe they're having a tea party."

"Nah, they're all much too busy being serious people doing serious things for something as fun as a tea party." Varric stands and stretches. "It's probably something terribly mundane and boring. You sure you don't want that drink?"

"I'm sure," Varenya cracks her knuckles, and winces at the sound. "I know well enough that one drink will turn into an hour of talking, and I don't want to give Nightingale a reason to dislike me by being late."

"Yeah, it's probably best if you stay on the spymaster's good side. She's not a good person to make angry."

"Really? From what little I've seen of her she seems perfectly friendly." _Now that I think about it, isn't that kind of odd? Why is the spymaster the nicest person I've met so far, next to the ambassador? _

"Seems is the operative word there, Shiny. She didn't get to be spymaster by making everyone cookies, you know." He shoots her a pointed look over the rim of his mug.

Varenya is too distracted to properly notice it. "Shiny? Is that what you're calling me now? I thought it was 'Elfy.'"

"Yeah, well, Elfy doesn't work too well when we've got another one wandering around." Varric grumbles into his mug. He is obviously displeased at having to abandon the nickname. "It's a work in progress."

Varenya shakes her head and allows herself a low snicker. "So, about Leliana, is she secretly evil? Is she, you know, stabbity-stab crazy?"

"What?" Varric seems shocked by the very idea. "No; she's just a bit ruthless, not crazy or anything. She's a good spymaster because she can be cold; she can detach herself from the situation, which is something I myself have never mastered. She's perfectly capable of being nice, just… be aware she's not that simple a person."

"Thank you for the warning, Varric." _Great, yet another prickly personality. The Inquisition is just full of sunshine._ "And on that note, I really should be going."

"Have fun."

* * *

><p>Leliana is busy speaking with one of her agents when Varenya arrives at her station. It's clear from Leliana's clenched fists and the agent's shaking shoulders that whatever it is they're speaking of is important. <em>Should I stay back? But whatever they're speaking about has to be interesting if "gentle" Leliana is that angry. <em>Varenya silently assesses the area, searching for a good spot to eavesdrop from. _Unfortunately everything is fairly open and I'm not terribly sneaky. What if I just walk in there? If they don't want me listening in they can throw me out themselves. _

With a saunter Varenya enters Leliana's tent and leans on the post. Leliana's greeting glare is sharp; she doesn't welcome Varenya here. _Well, she didn't say it out loud, so it doesn't count._ The mage feigns ignorance of Leliana's anger and gives the redhead a small grin as she flutters her fingers in greeting. The other woman simply tenses her jaw with annoyance and turns her attention back to the agent.

"He's killed Farrier." _Ah, there's that coldness Varric warned me about._ "One of my best agents. And knows where the others are. You know what must be done. Make it-"

"What?!" That shock jolts Varenya into a standing position. She can feel her jaw hanging open, her eyebrows climbing to her hairline. Leliana's glare tell her she doesn't appreciate the interruption, but she finds she's too full of shock to care. "Are you suggesting killing a man? Why?"

"He betrayed us! He murdered my agent!" If tongues could cut, Varenya would be ribbons.

"Yes, he did. That doesn't mean you should just kill him out of hand!" _Murder! Okay, yeah, betrayal and all that. But shouldn't he get a trial or something? Isn't that what shemlen do?_

"Herald," Varenya doesn't manage to stamp down her wince. "We cannot afford to be soft-hearted. Our enemies are numerous, and they will not show us such kindness. We cannot afford the luxury of ideals at a time like this."

"I'm not saying we should just forgive the man, just that we shouldn't jump straight to murder." The spymaster's glare burns into her, as vicious as any spell Varenya has ever encountered. She forces some ironbark into her spine and stands tall, refusing to bow under the considerable weight of the spymaster's disapproval. She scrambles for reasons, for excuses to save the traitor's life. "We should capture the traitor and question him. We should at least know how much information he's sold on us. Who has he sold it to? Where are the other agents? We should find out _why_ he turned on the Inquisition."

Varenya forces herself to meet Leliana's blue eyes, as icy and harsh as winter. The woman's gaze pierces her, as if by staring she can carve out Varenya's reasoning out of her skull to better scrutinize it. It is a distinctly uncomfortable experience.

"You're reasoning is sound. Fine." She blinks, and releases the elf from their contest of wills. It's a trial to not slump with relief. "Butler is to be taken in for questioning. It is not necessary that he remained unharmed, just that he remain alive."

The agent bows and scrapes, mumbles a few words and flees. Leliana says nothing to Varenya; she simply walks past the mage and towards the Chantry, her longer legs quickly putting distance between the two women. _So much for wanting to talk to me. And so much for Leliana being the perfect spymaster; she doesn't look so detached to me._ The elf follows at her own pace, proud enough to not jog at the human's heels.

Josephine is the only one to greet Varenya with a smile when she walks into the council room. She's not surprised; the charming Antivan woman is unfailingly polite. Leliana is angry at her for interfering with the agent, so her snub isn't unexpected. Cassandra almost never smiles; Varenya is uncertain if the stoic warrior even knows how to.

The Commander's barely spares any attention for her entrance, only shooting her a quick glance, his lip curled in annoyance. His reaction isn't unexpected, but it still hurts. They had been getting along so well since she woke. They had sat next to one another at dinner a few times, having simple, but friendly enough, conversations. Varenya had managed to get a quick glimpse of a man named Cullen beneath the gruff Commander persona, and she had hopes they could become friends. _Oh, be honest with yourself. 'Friendship' was only part of it. I barely heard his little "lecture" on the potential of the Inquisition I was staring at his lip scar so much, and wondering what it would feel like… _

_SHEM! He's a shem._ Her inner voice scolds._ What would Keeper Istimaethoriel say?! Besides, I blew all chances of that already with my stupid… _

"Herald?" Josephine's voice, rich with concern, calls her back to the present. _Shit__! I missed what she was saying._

"Please, Josephine. Call me Varenya." She knows trying to get Josephine to break from propriety is a futile endeavor but, damnit, she has to try! Somehow the ambassador has gotten it in her head that the title "Herald of Andraste" is a _good_ thing, and she's been trying to push others to call the mage by it through leading by example. Varenya understands having Andraste on their side gives the Inquisition a healthy dose of legitimacy, but that doesn't mean she has to like it. "And I'm sorry, I missed what you were saying."

"As I was telling the others before you arrived, we have been getting reports from the Hinterlands." Josephine looks down at her board, balanced on her hip, referring to her notes. "Refugees displaced by the war have flooded the region. Our agents in the area report there are not enough supplies to feed and clothe them all. Adding to the troubles, fighting between the rebel mages and templars continues. A Mother Giselle has asked for our help setting things right in the Hinterlands. She has also expressed a desire to meet the Herald for herself."

"Me? What would she want with me?"

Cassandra is the one who speaks. "You are a living legend, Herald. You stopped the Breach, and half the world knows it. It's honestly more surprising when someone does not wish to meet you. There have been requests pouring in from all over Thedas, asking you to visit."

"And plenty of them think I'm a heretic or worse. I would assume a good number of those people are more interested in having me assassinated than shaking my hand."

Cassandra offers only a shrug as comfort. "Killing you still qualifies as meeting you."

"Regardless of what qualifies as meeting someone," Josephine interjects, shooting a glance requesting quiet at Cassandra. "The fact remains that Mother Giselle could be a powerful supporter, and we have no reason to believe she wishes you ill. In fact, she has expressed a desire to help the Inquisition. She may be able to placate those in the Chantry who are accusing us of heresy. For these reasons, we think it would be best if you went to the Hinterlands to meet with her."

"You would entrust this task to me?" There are several reasons Varenya can think of for the Inquisition to keep her out of this, chief among them the lack of proof of her loyalty and the possibility she may run off.

"It was you she asked to see," the Commander's bitter tone communicates just how pleased he is with this.

The Commander receives one of Josephine's exasperated glares. "We think this task can be done only by you. If we want Mother Giselle to trust us, we must give her reason to. Sending you as she requested is a good start. Besides," she turns a dazzling grin on Varenya, piling on the charm. "The people believe in you, Herald. If we wish for them to keep hope, we must foster their faith. Will you do this for the Inquisition?"

Varenya knows it can't be that simple, not when the ambassador is trying to pull on all of Varenya's heartstrings: making her appeal friendly with the smiles; invoking the good of the people; calling upon loyalty to the Inquisition. But enduring a bit of manipulation is worth it if it gets her out of Haven. _I wouldn't be surprised if that was their entire goal: getting me out of town. Keep me busy and out of the way. Creators know the Keeper did it often enough._

"I would be happy to help," Varenya paints on a smile for the council.

"Thank you, Herald." Josephine scribbles a quick note on her board before smiling beatifically. "Your contribution is appreciated."

"There are other things the Inquisition must look into in the Hinterlands," Leliana adds, shooting Varenya a small, friendly grin before stepping up to the table and laying down a map of the Hinterlands. _I guess I've been forgiven for my interference_. "The Inquisition needs more horses if we are to expand our influence beyond the Frostbacks. Our scouts have established a camp here," she points to a spot on the map. "Horsemaster Dennet may be able to supply us with mounts. His farm is here," she gestures towards what appears to be a small village on the edge of the mountains. "Scouts from the main camp will be able to guide you there easily enough."

Josephine lays a note on the table beside the maps for Varenya to pick up and read. "We've also received word from a band of mercenaries. The 'Bull's Chargers' they call themselves. The leader has conveyed a willingness to work for the Inquisition. I have checked their references; they are extensive and overwhelmingly positive."

The Commander finally speaks up, although he still barely looks at her. "We ask that you make contact with their leader, this 'Iron Bull.' We need to bolster our forces, even if that means hiring mercenaries."

"Finally, we have been informed of a Warden doing recruitment in the Hinterlands. Considering the rest of the Grey Wardens have gone completely silent," a muscle in Leliana's clenched jaw twitches with displeasure, "It is essential we establish contact with this Warden."

_So, they didn't just want to get me out of Haven. They wanted an errand girl. _"Meet Mother Giselle, obtain mounts, hire a mercenary company and establish contact with a Warden. That's quite the list. I guess I should start packing."

"I will come with you," Cassandra picks up the map of the Hinterlands and rolls it up, taking it with her. "In such dangerous times you should not travel alone."

_So that's why they aren't afraid I'll run; I have a babysitter. Well, if I'm going to have company anyway, why not make it a party? _"A fair point. Perhaps we should bring Solas and Varric along as well."

Cassandra's expression is the very picture of conflict. She opens her mouth, likely to deny the request, but closes it a second later; Varenya's suggestion is a decent one, after all. She sighs, scrunching her nose up with disgust. "If you think it necessary," she eventually concedes with a pained groan.

Varenya practically skips out of the Chantry. She can get away from the stalking whispers. She can escape the assessing stares. She can leave these snow covered mountains behind, and have a bit of an adventure.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Thank you to everyone who read, favorited or followed since last chapter. And a big thank you to those who reviewed: my guest and jpgFury! I'm glad you both liked my portrayal of Cullen. Your feedback is greatly appreciated.

Now that our protagonists have finally met and have reached Haven the story is going to pick up bit in , this chapter is a bit of a slow one. I felt there needed to be something between the closing of the Breach and running around the Hinterlands, so this chapter came to be. It serves as setup and a way to show how Varenya has been adjusting to being a legend. Next chapter: we get Cullen's perspective on the past two weeks, what the Herald did to piss him off, and we get to see what he's doing while the Inquisitor traipses around the Hinterlands.

Fun fact: The elvish Varenya hums to herself in the flashback is from the song "Suledin," meaning "Endure." The bit she hums roughly translates to: Be certain in need, and the path will emerge.

I moved where/when we will meet Bull in order to make the story flow better. I don't like the way a lot of quests flow in DA:I. Due to it being a game, time spent travelling isn't really taken into account. We just press a button and shwoop! we're in a new zone. In actuality, it would take a long time to get to even just the Hinterlands from Haven. One of the war table quests mention going through the Fallow Mire takes a week off of travel time between the Hinterlands and Haven. The world is BIG, and the way certain quests are set up do not reflect that. For example, in Bull's quest, Krem comes all the way to Haven just to deliver a message, then the Herald travels a distance it should take WEEKS to cover just to watch Bull smack some Vints around. That makes no sense, so I've changed it a bit so that Bull is already in the same area as the Inquisitor. Otherwise recruiting him would take months, and that would bog down the story bunches. Throughout ATPID I'm going to be altering quests and cutscenes/switching around their orders to keep them consistent with the time spent travelling to do them. Some conversations/cutscenes will also be moved to have the narritive make more sense. For instance, Cullen, Leliana and Josephine are keeping Varenya in the dark about the political maneuverings of the Inquisition, since they see no reason to trust her with the information yet; Varenya hasn't proven herself. It doesn't make sense to me that they would share everything with you right after you wake up. It's necessary for the gaming experience, but doesn't mesh well from a storytelling perspective.

A smaller thing I've changed is that Rifts can be closed even if the demons summoned from it are still alive, unlike in the game. The restriction makes sense from a gameplay standpoint, but not a lore one, so I've scrapped it.


	6. Chapter 4- Cullen

**IMPORTANT NOTE:**

This is the new Chapter 4. The old one is no longer part of this fanfic. This chapter is meant to follow directly after Chapter 3, Part 2- Cullen II.

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><p><strong>IV. Cullen<strong>

_**The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil**_

_**And grew jealous of the life**_

_**They could not feel, could not touch.**_

_**In blackest envy were the demons born.**_

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><p>Wave after wave of demons break themselves against the soldiers' wall of blades. The troops are fighting well, but a full day of battles is taking its toll on them; their strength is beginning to wane. <em>We cannot take much more of this. <em>Cullen ducks beneath the swipe of a demon's claws to bury his sword to the hilt in its abdomen. _If the prisoner doesn't succeed soon…_

A staggering pulse of magic crushes Cullen, driving him to his knees. Panic strikes him as he fights against his locked knees and struggles for breath. _Nononono. Can't fall over on a battlefield!_ _That's just asking for the demons to take a chunk out of me. _He lets out a frustrated cry as he strives to make it to his feet. He curses himself as his feet threaten to give out from under him and his head swims in magic. _If I had kept up with my templar training this wouldn't be happening, the magic wouldn't overwhelm me._ _If I had more lyrium… _A second pulse ripples through the cold air, just as strong as before. Magic crashes over him, crushing the very breath from his lungs. It pours down his throat and fills his pores, crackling with a fierce energy. The magic sings within him, the sky weeps above them.

The demons begin to scream in harmony with the Breach, howling with unholy rage and hunger as the Fade reaches out to them, pulling them back into its embrace. Their unnatural forms twist and warp, some disintegrating as their essence gets pulled back across the Veil. The stronger of the monsters retain their grip on the mortal world. They lash out in rage and fear, desperate to avoid the inevitable beckoning of the Fade.

The eerie song of the Breach swells to a crescendo. Cullen barely retains his grip on his swords as his palms itch to cover his ears in the vain hope of blocking out the overwhelming noise.

The moment shatters with a thunderous crack and a blinding light. An explosion from somewhere within the temple shakes the earth, the shock wave knocking Cullen flat on his face. A dull ache spreads from where his forehead struck the ground, sharp chunks of gravel bite into his cheek. His ears ringing, eyes blind and head swimming, he struggles to recover the breath knocked from him. _That was either a really good sign, or a really bad one._ He scrambles to his feet, blinking rapidly, trying to clear his sight of bright patches and swarming black dots. _Now to find out which._

The echoes of the Breach bleed away, leaving a heavy silence behind. Cullen looks to the sky where the Breach remains. Disappointment wells up within him, heavy in his gut and bitter on the side of his tongue.

"Commander!" His lieutenant calls out as she picks herself up. "What's happened?"

_Now that's a good question._ The demons are gone, and the strange song of the Breach is muted, its light dimmed. He reaches out with his templar-honed senses towards the Breach. The Veil is stretched thin, practically bursting with the weight of the Fade pressing up against it. But the Veil _is_ there, the hole patched. _We did it. The mage did it._ The words rattle about the inside of his skull, all other thoughts stunned into silence. _The Breach is sealed. For now, at least. I doubt it will last._ "The hole in the Veil is gone! We've done it!"

Silence hangs over the shattered courtyard as his soldiers scramble to their feet, processing his declaration. A few muted murmurs race around the group, before evolving into excited speaking. A single victorious shout catches others in its tide, and together they swell, breaking into a fervent cheer. Their pride shakes the cobblestones. Cullen does not join in their celebration; the others haven't emerged from the temple yet.

Cullen runs for the temple, gravel slipping beneath his boots. "Seeker Pentaghast?" Cullen's voice echoes in the emptiness as he stumbles down the corridor. The only response to his calls is the pulse and whine of red lyrium. "Cassandra? Leliana? Varric?" The silence is suffocating, "Varenya?"

He emerges from the corridor and into the temple proper. Bodies lay in the hall, scattered and bleeding, the smell of charred flesh choking the air. Cullen raises a shaking hand to cover his nose and mouth as he scans the bodies, until he sees a familiar suit of armor.

"Cassandra!" He scrambles down the ruined slope from the corridor to the courtyard, a small avalanche of pebbles coming loose from his clumsy steps. The Seeker lays face-down against the soot-stained stone, unmoving. Cullen turns her over on to her back, praying and cursing all at once, hoping she yet lives. The woman coughs and winces, grabbing at her ribs as she drags herself into a sitting position.

"...Age," Cassandra manages to rasp out, squinting at Cullen.

"What?"

"Where is the mage?"

Cullen whips around, scanning the hall for their allies. The once prone forms littering the courtyard begin to stir. A great many begin to pick themselves up, groaning and grabbing at their heads or chests. An equal number remain still, smoke still curling off their bodies or bloodstains still blossoming around them. Cullen allows himself a sigh of relief when he catches a glimpse of familiar red hair standing and hears a familiar dwarven voice rattling off a barrage of curses.

He finally spots a head of white-gold hair and a slight body slumped over crumpled knees. All of the raging voices within, both of relief and of fear, go silent as he stares at the unmoving body, still as a corpse. _No. She can't be dead already._ No blood pools beneath her, no char marks betray strikes of lightning. _She's not dead. Can't be dead._ Cullen approaches the limp form, his chest aching with held breath. _The Breach isn't gone yet. We still need her; she can't be dead._

With trembling fingers Cullen grips the mage's shoulder. Her head lolls lifelessly to the side. The balance of the body disrupted, she begins to fall over. He roughly catches the body against cold gauntlets, and yet the mage doesn't stir.

_Dead. No. Can't be. Dead. Dead. Dead._ His breath comes shorter, the sides of his neck aching with a held-back cry. _After all that trouble, all the blood and all the dying, we've failed. Again and again, we've failed._ This is the end. Their one hope for truly closing the Breach lies empty in his arms. _It's only a matter of time before that thing opens again._ The immensity of the moment rises above him, the depth of their failure threatening to drown him. His stomach churns and his throat burns as he feels the need to retch. He wrestles against the heaving in his gut as a small voice of rationality fights to make itself heard. _No. I can't stop now. There are wounded. We need a new plan._ There is no time to come undone. The world is ending all over again and they will need every last second they can get in order to prepare. He hunches over the still body and closes his eyes, teeth grit, and wills himself to emptiness.

The brush of something vibrant against the edges of his senses sends prickles dancing down his spine. Surprise jolts him from his reverie. _What was that?_ He holds his breath, waiting, but the sensation doesn't come again. Bitterly he sinks back to despair, again throwing all thought away. The pulse comes again, reverberating through his blood and breath. _Again! I know I did not imagine it. _He concentrates on stilling his center and spreading his senses outwards, straining to find that sensation again. It comes again, the faintest pulse of magic, from within his arms.

_If she's dead there can't be magic… But there is… _Cullen tears at his gauntlet's buckles with both teeth and clumsy fingers. He tosses the armor over his shoulder with a heedless clatter, tears the leather glove beneath off his hand with as little care. He lays trembling fingers against the hollow where the mage's jaw meets her neck and leans so his cheek is in front of the mage's open lips. _Come on, come on, come on…_ The whisper of a heartbeat finds his seeking fingertips, and a weak puff of breath drifts across his cheek. Everything within him goes still, silent, until the second one confirms the impossible.

"Alive," he whispers, as if to assure himself that this moment is real, to prove that it won't shatter into delirium. "The mage is alive!" he manages to yell. Whispers instantaneously burst into being from the soldiers. They proclaim her a miracle. Cullen is inclined to agree.

Leliana crouches across from Cullen, blocking mage from awestruck stares. She checks the mage's heartbeat, lays the back of her hand against the other woman's brow. "She is alive, but maybe not for long. We must get her to Haven immediately."

Cullen hesitates as his gaze falls on fallen bodies. _They died or are dying on my orders. I should be here, with them. I owe them at least that much._ But the magic in his arms is unique, and its bearer can still be saved. Protecting the Mark and the woman who comes with it matters more than saving even a hundred wounded soldiers, no matter how heartless it sounds. _Once the mage is safe there will be time to mourn the soldiers._

He slides one arm beneath the elven woman's folded knees, the other behind her back and stands, barking orders as he does so. "You, there," he nods at a man in messenger's armor who seems to be largely uninjured. "We need a horse. Run, find us one and return with it immediately. We will begin walking towards Haven along the main road, you'll find us there. You," he orders another scout. "You will run to Haven. Tell them we need healers. Have at least one remain there for the mage. The rest are to come here, immediately. The rest of you, begin moving those who can be moved to the forward camp. Save those who you can."

Leliana lays a hand on Cullen's shoulder, drawing his attention. "We should avoid exposing the prisoner to new people. We can't be certain of their reactions." Her voice is almost inaudible, her eyes cast over the scurrying troops with ill-concealed suspicion.

Her suspicion puts him on edge. "What do you suppose we do then? Hide her in a cave and pray?" Cullen hisses back.

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous." Her hand moves to between his shoulders and pushes, guiding him towards the temple exit. "Adan, the apothecary, already knows about her. He treated her while she was in the cells, and he'll treat her now."

A handful of protests wait on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them down. He just hopes Leliana's confidence isn't misplaced.

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><p>"I'm not a healer! I really don't know what you expect me to do!" The alchemist crosses his arms and scowls at Cassandra. She scowls right back.<p>

"I expect you to do something beyond yelling at us!"

"I've already told you people, I'm an _alchemist…"_

Cassandra interrupts Adan with a hand wave and a growl. "Who knows more about healing than any of us do. Now, take a look at her!"

Adan sneers back at the Seeker, and for a moment Cullen almost thinks he's going to refuse. The defiant expression drops off his face when Cassandra brushes her fingertips against the pommel of her sword and narrows her eyes to slits. "Fine! But I'm warning you now, I don't do miracles." The man turns his back on them and begins rifling through the rather extensive collection of bottles he brought with him. "Now, Seeker, if you're done glaring at me I could use your help getting the patient out of her jacket. I need to check for wounds."

Cullen steps into the hall of the hut to give the alchemist room and studies the wood grain of the wall to give the mage privacy. Cassandra and Adan half-heartedly curse at one another as they work together, Adan examining the mage and Cassandra fetching things from his bag. Cullen's thoughts grow fuzzy and begin to drift, settling on their wounded and their fallen. A band squeezes his heart and his breath goes short. The edges of his vision darkens as his thoughts chase one another round and round. _How many are wounded? I should be there, helping. How many dead? Have relief efforts been organized? I should be there, I should be there, I should be there._

The door swings open, letting in a blast of twilight-chilled air as well as visitors. The sight of the red-headed spymaster is a welcome one. The sight of the red-faced man at her heels is not. Nor is his whining. "You have no authority to issue orders to Chantry forces. Until representatives are sent from Val Royeaux they are under the command of the…"

Leliana simply rolls her eyes and ignores the ranting man behind her. "Cullen, Cassandra. Adan. How is she?"

The apothecary doesn't bother looking away from his patient. "As far as I can tell, she's in excellent health, other than being unresponsive and some impressive bruising coming in on her torso."

Leliana mutters something flowing and syballint in Orlesian. Cullen is moderately certain it's a curse. "She's still unresponsive?"

"What? What's all this?!" Chancellor Roderick loudly demands, trying to shove past the spymaster. He is unsuccessful.

Adan turns around. A vein in his temple throbs at the Chancellor's interruption. "You said she's a mage? It could be mana-exhaustion. She may have drained her reserves. If so, she won't wake until they're recovered." He collapses into a waiting chair beside the window and the bed.

Roderick's eyes bulge as he catches sight of the unconscious figure on the bed. His mouth gapes like that of a fish as the red that had previously been confined to his ears and nose begins to overtake the rest of his face. _We should have known better than to let him in here. _"This is insane! You're keeping the murderer here? She should face justice for the Conclave!" Adan drops his head into his hands as the Chancellor's voice raises.

"And she will, _if _she actually killed the Divine." Cassandra comes to stand at Leliana's side, forming quite the intimidating wall in front of the Chancellor. Her voice is just a shade quieter than the man's.

"You can't actually believe the elf is innocent!" The alchemist's hands begin to shake, the veins standing out starkly.

"Apparently, Chancellor, I can."

The apothecary has had enough. He surges to his feet, glaring daggers at Roderick, Cassandra and Leliana all. "Alright, that's enough. If you can't be quiet then _leave_." Adan points a commanding finger at the door, fearless even in the face of Leliana's narrowing eyes. Cullen can't deny being impressed. "Your yelling isn't going to make her heal any faster."

Leliana's lip twist to the side, brows pulled low, but she eventually nods instead of turning her ire on the man. "Of course. Come now, Roderick. We'll continue this in the Chantry." Leliana turns on her heel and strides out of the hut, Roderick spitting protests at her back as he follows. Cassandra simply rolls her eyes and strolls out, letting the door slam shut behind her.

Adan turns back to working on the mage. Cullen hovers awkwardly in the doorway. He should follow Leliana, help her run damage control with the chancellor. Or he should track down Cassandra and help her organize the troops in the aftermath of the Breach being closed. He should get out of Adan's way. But the moment he steps outside of this hut a thousand pair of eyes will look to him, a thousand mouth will ask for explanations. A thousand lives will once again be put in his hands, and all he wants to do is _not deal with that_.

"Either get out or stop staring and help me," Adan snaps out in his terse way. Cullen casts one last look at the door, _It's not as if I'll be here much longer. I'll be back at work soon enough,_ and jumps to do the apothecary's bidding.

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><p>Dawn finds Cullen keeping vigil at the mage's bedside. He tried to leave many times in the night. At least half a dozen times he forced himself out of his rickety chair and made it to the door before turning around and throwing himself back into the chair. <em>I'm a coward.<em> It isn't selflessness that keeps him here. He has no great concern for the mage, he does not fear for her life. He has no reason to sit by her sleeping side. His vigil is not for her, but rather serves as an excuse for himself. He is hiding. _Such a giant bleeding coward._

The inside of the hut is warm, a fire blazing merrily in the brazier. The scent of apples lingers from the drink an elven servant had brought him, mixing with the astringent scent of elfroot from the poultice smeared on the mage's bruised ribs. The smell is not unlike that of the templar training barracks he spent his teenage years in. It's a comfortable scent, a safe scent. If Cullen closes his eyes he can pretend he's back there, one out of dozens of faceless recruits. Back where making a mistake meant a week scrubbing pots in the kitchens, instead of dozens of empty deaths.

Within the hut, Cullen can lie to himself. He can pretend he's just one soldier out of an army. He can tell himself he's unimportant, and his choices mean little to nothing. The moment he steps outside, the fantasy ends. He will have to return to being Commander, and assume all the responsibility the title implies. Deaths upon deaths, each and every one a consequence of his miserable leadership.

He did not leave the hut in the night. He did not sleep. Instead he has spent the night staring out the window, watching the stars slowly fade as the new day approaches. He watches even as the first beams of sunlight cut through the coiled clouds surrounding the Breach and paints them with shades of gold. The dawn's light refracts within the green nexus, throwing fractured rainbows against the clouds. The magnificence of it sickens him.

The Sisters say the Maker's hand is evident in a sunrise. _"Gaze upon the vibrant colors, feel the dawning warmth. Does your heart not sing with its majesty?"_ Cullen has spent countless mornings watching the sun rise. He has sung the Chant to welcome the beginning of the day. In every sunrise he has known the glory of the Maker in the gentle warmth of the dawn, his heart soaring with the profound purity of it all.

He feels no such warmth now. His heart lies still within his chest.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

As always, thank you for reading, reviewing, favoriting and following! I always appreciate feedback.

First off, about the old chapter 4: I really didn't like the way it turned out. It felt sloppy, and as if I had written myself into an awkward spot. So I've decided to do away with it. I'm leaving it up for a little bit, in case people want to read it, but when the next chapter goes up it will be deleted.

About this chapter: I'm so sorry it took forever to get done! I spent 2 weeks trying to make a follow up chapter to the old chapter 4 work, and just couldn't get there. I decided I wanted to explore what was happening elsewhere while Varenya was closing the Breach, so this came about. Initially it was supposed to just be a snippet out of a larger chapter, but once I started writing this bit it kept growing and growing until it was better off as its own minor chapter. I would have trimmed it down to fit in with the next chapter, but it's been so long since I've updated that I wanted to get _something_ out.

Lore issues: I've expanded templar abilities a bit for this fanfic. The full extent of what they can do is never stated; but we do know they can inhibit the use of magic and "cleanse" areas of it. Thus, it would make sense that they can sense magic and its use as well, otherwise, how would they know to use smite?

A small thing: In DA:I it's said that Adan is the closest thing they have to a healer in Haven. That seems pretty ridiculous for a place where an army is stationed. Even if they didn't have mages, they should have had doctors. It's such a small detail, but it's always bothered me a whole bunch. What kind of idiots have an army without medical help? Seriously…

Next chapter: may be another Cullen POV. It will likely be the second half I had planned for this chapter.


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